Bryan's knowledge of motorcycles was second to none and although different from the motors that powered the Apache, he had applied his engineers mind to the vast number of manuals that Hog had gathered about the Longbow and pored over endless drawings but all was to no avail, the two T700-GE-701C motors would not ignite. Sitting now in the area that Hog called his "chill pit", basically an area with a couple of easy chairs, a battered old table and a section of work surface that held a kettle, some cups and the various bits needed to make tea and coffee, he shook his head to dislodge the fatigue that fogged his brain. Having made himself a steaming cup of strong tea he sat in his chair, they each had their own, and looked into the empty biscuit tin that held just crumbs thanks to Hog and it was as he looked at the tiny crumbs that a light went on. Tiny things, things that were easy to miss, seemingly insignificant things, for whatever reason Bryan suddenly remembered a crumb of a conversation that he had with Hog in the early days as they stripped one of the General Electric motors. “Watch you don't pinch that cable," Hog had warned. Bryan placed his cup down and raced over to the helicopter.
"Surely it can't be that simple," he whispered.
Working for the next hour he finally lifted the section of motor with an overhead electric hoist, and there it was, a severed cable. Still unable to believe that it was that simple, he set to work and effected a repair before carefully, very carefully, dropping the section of engine back into place. Lashing in two huge batteries, that were constantly on charge, Bryan climbed into the cockpit, as he had done countless times with Hog, and with a fluttering in his chest went through the prestart routine that Hog had schooled him in and one that he could now do blindfolded. Closing his eyes, he hit the button and listened as the motors started to whine, the motor whistle getting louder and louder and he knew instinctively it was different from all of the other failed attempts and as the four huge rotors picked up pace the engines burst into life and began to roar.
"Come on you beauty," screamed Bryan at the top of his voice. Through the side window he saw Saphire with a huge beam on her face.
Several moments later, with the huge doors opened to let out the fumes, the pair stood with several of the other Angels who had gathered to stare at the now silent beast.
"Boys and their toys," tutted Saphire as the huge craft pinged and clicked as the engines cooled.
What she didn't know at that moment was that that particular toy was going to play a huge role in an event that was building, an event where the life of someone close to all of them would hang in the balance.
#
Blade had to use every sinew in his body to stop the laughter from bursting from his lips as he followed Bruger and his death squad bodyguards up the gangplank as they boarded HMS Duncan, a Type 45 Destroyer. Not that the ship itself was at all humorous but the dozen British sailors in full uniform piping the strutting Fort leader aboard was comical beyond belief and when the officer in charge actually saluted Bruger, Blade had to turn away and feign a coughing fit to smother the giggles that refused to stay in.
"Welcome aboard Mr Bruger," beamed the officer in charge.
"I believe you have some goodies to show me?" replied the FW leader cutting right to the chase.
All of Blade’s mirth disappeared as the officer took them on a guided tour of the ship. They breezed past the Sea Viper air defence system, with a 48-cell Sylver A50 VLS (vertical launch system) with a mix of 48 missiles including Aster 15 missiles (30) and Aster 30s (60). Bruger’s glee at a pair of Quad Harpoon launchers was a chilling sight for Blade who knew he would use them on a whim. The fire power went on as they viewed a pair of 30mm Oerlikon guns, two Phalanx CIWS, six general machine guns and two Mini Guns.
Completing their tour at the bridge, Bruger ordered a kilo of White Lightning, several crates of beer and ten bottles of rum to be brought aboard and spread amongst the 25 crew members who had remained aboard the Duncan and maintained it to some degree, adhering loosely to the order and rank held prior to the plague. It kept together as a unit ready, all be it now dysfunctional, and hungry for war. It's what they knew, what they were trained, wished for and now craved and Bruger was going to grant them that wish.
"So Captain," addressed Bruger to the senior officer, "are you fully operational?”
"Not quite Mr Bruger, we have some final preparations in respect of the engines and we are close to reforming a link with one of a number of military satellites that will give us our communications network back along with other navigational abilities that will be essential for the delivery of......" the Captain paused, “the missile."
Blade felt dizzy, he knew what the man was referring to, saw the same crazed smile on his face he had seen on Bruger’s. The man was as insane as his leader.
"How long?" snapped Bruger, walking to the window and looking down on his Mutant army sat feeding on human flesh down on the jetty.
"Ten days, possibly twelve," responded the Captain.
Bruger spun and walked with purposeful strides towards him, his quartet of Mutants moving as one with him. "I think you meant five,” he growled.
The Captain’s eyes slid across the Mutants then fixed on Bruger. “Yes...yes of course...five days Mr Bruger."
Bruger stood for several seconds looking down on the shorter man, saying nothing, his eyes burning home their message. "We leave the day after tomorrow Captain, I wish to test out my army. When I return I will expect you to be ready to sail." Bruger moved his face down closer to the man. "Do not disappoint me.” With that he turned and headed for the gangplank.
"Blade, with me," snapped the Fort Warwick leader, subconsciously stroking the two vials that now were a permanent feature around his neck.
"So what’s this test Karl?" asked the leaders second in command as he closed on his shoulder.
"I intend to take what’s mine Blade."
Blade frowned, the man was a walking riddle these days, "So......what exactly are we taking?”
Bruger stopped suddenly and turned to face the man who for years was his most trusted enforcer. “Not we Blade, me. You’re staying here... and it’s Scotland Blade, I'm taking Scotland.”
Chapter 19
"You got a spare arm or leg in the freezer?”
The Preacher laid his coat over the front seat of his jeep. From one of the pockets sewn into the interior he pulled free his Remington 870 12 gauge pistol grip shotgun that held two 3 inch shells and one in the chamber. In his leather back harness sat his warrior fixed blade combat knife, in his under arm holster was a Glock18C hand gun that could flip from a single shot to a fully automatic weapon. Finally there was his brass knuckle dusters and a Tomahawk Smith and Wesson extraction axe that he slipped into his belt.
Standing now, he took several deep breaths, his cut off Levi shirt showing the muscles that he kept honed and pumped from daily work outs, the rich tapestry of tattoos that adorned the giant black man left little doubt as to his religious belief, the two crosses on either side of his neck giving him the aura of an avenging angel and the vivid burn to the right hand side of his neck showing a man used to pain. Looking down on the devastation he had already created he gave up a silent prayer of forgiveness for what he was about to do. This was going to be up close and personal for he wanted to look deep into the eyes of the man known as The Butcher as the light of his life flickered and died. Jogging down to the fence line he slipped through the slit he had cut earlier and made his way through the field of debris created by the plastic explosive.
As he approached the main door of the Cutting Shed, a ragged group of four survivors came screaming towards him, wild shooting sending bullets zinging past him. Lifting his Remington, he cut the first man down with two shots in quick succession at knee height, a third from his now extracted Glock gave the man a third eye. Man two received the two final shells from the Remington, slamming him up against the side of a Jeep before sliding down onto the floor where he sat never to move again. Flipping the Glock to automatic he sent a spray of bul
lets into the chest of man three who was stopped in his tracks, sending him over onto his backside, the anguished cry never leaving his lips for his rib cage and lungs had been smashed into splinters and pulp. Man four slammed into The Preacher who twisted as he was hit, taking the force out of the charge. Dropping his weapons he expertly spun the man around so he now had his back to the giant black man. A powerful arm slipped around his throat and began to squeeze, the flaying man’s feet leaving the ground as The Preacher straightened up his thickly corded forearm, continuing to apply pressure until the man went limp. The corpse was allowed to drop to the floor, the avenging angel that was The Preacher moving on to The Cutting Shed. At the main door he placed his hand on the door and paused. He knew from his conversation with Wishbone that The Butcher had a dedicated crew surrounding him in his mission to provide Bruger with an ever constant flow of human flesh, a crew who must in all honesty be devoid of all conscience, sanity and human emotion. Turning the handle, he tested for tension and found none, the door was unlocked.
Flinging it open he threw in the M84 stun-grenade in his hand and then pressed himself against the outside wall and counted to three. Even before the blast of air had died, The Preacher was through the door and into the murky darkness. Beyond, the smell of death was overpowering despite the after odour of the flash bang. Crouched low behind a steel table The Preacher waited for his pupils to enlarge, waited as they drank in the ambient light created by the low current, the vast space filled with tiny clicks and creaks of sound, the drip of fluids from the cutting tables and the clink of chains that swayed from the track above where hundreds of poor souls, many his flock, had hung waiting for the knives of The Butcher and his minions. As his eyes calibrated to the light he was able to make out a number of shapes, corpses still hanging from a number of chains in the conveyer belt of hell, ranks of bodies each stripped of clothing, each with arms dangling down below their heads. Men, women and children all swaying gently in the rhythm of death and as each turned he saw the vivid gash across each throat and the red mask of blood each wore where their life force had flowed into the drains below them.
The Preacher had witnessed many horrors in his lifetime, things that no man should see but he could deal with those for they were created by poor souls who had had their choice ripped from them by the plague that had devastated all of the continents. But what he was now seeing was created by men with free will and by that virtue he was witnessing the purest form of evil he had ever seen. His eyes ran along the line desperately seeking out which of these poor wretches were his flock and suddenly he came to what was clearly a child, a little girl of around seven, a child with blond hair and a withered left arm. He stood, all thoughts of concealment forgotten as he walked with a breaking heart to the small corpse. He placed a giant hand behind the child’s head, as he had done so many times before, and pulled her to his chest.
The scream came from deep inside of him, from within his soul, it was a roaring cry of anguish and anger and anyone who saw him might believe that in his pain and suffering his mind was anywhere but on his surroundings where a group of ten of The Butcher’s minions were easing through the semi darkness, closing on the giant black man. Each carried a butcher’s knife that had been honed to a razors edge, each had been pointed towards the man who would destroy their world by The Butcher. The Preacher gathered himself, his senses telling him of the closing group. Stepping sideways, he placed himself into an open area around seven metres square between steel tables where he guessed the butchering took place for a series of grill covered gullies ran from each table to the centre of the area where a larger gulley ran away into the murky darkness. The Preacher knew well the smell of blood, he could smell it here and in the next few moments there would be more, much more.
#
"OK, how are we gonna handle this?” spoke Tom from the back seat as Anderson pulled up outside of the laboratory inside Fort London.
"We can't just drag him out," offered Hog, turning slowly to look in the back of the Discovery. "Damn thing has got his arm around Hope.”
"His name is Andrew," admonished Hope, "and he's not a thing.”
"Right, here's the plan," began Anderson, turning to look at Tom. "I'll move around to the back of the discovery and......." The SAS man never got to finish as a click from the back warned the three men that the back tailgate had been opened.
The three men all exited the vehicle in time to see Hope leading the Mutant by the hand, a Mutant called Andrew who growled and snarled at anyone who approached him yet was entranced by a little girl.
"Where shall we go?” asked Hope calmly.
Anderson led the way into the laboratory and pointed to an open holding cell in one corner. "You need to place Andrew in here Hope and leave him.” Seeing her hesitation, he knelt well away from the pair, bringing himself down to her height. "We have to keep Andrew safe Hope until we can find the best way to make him better, it's not safe for him or us until we can do that.”
Hope seemed to wrestle with that for a moment before deciding that her protector, Craig Anderson, was right. "Come on," she spoke softly, leading Andrew into the cell.
Andrew was feeling calm, he was with Cathy and the beast was not threatening. Sitting on the bed he watched as Cathy walked away and then the men with her closed a door trapping him. The heat started to build up inside of him, the beast was coming.
Hope cried out as the Mutant slammed up against the bars, his hand reaching out through them to the food he wanted beyond, Pure flesh. "He wants to hold my hand, Mr Craig."
"It's too dangerous Hope," explained Anderson, holding her back. "Andrew is not feeling good at the moment, you need to wait until he is calm again. Tom, take Hope home please," instructed the Fort London security man.
After the child had left, Anderson and Hog stood clear of the clutching hands of Andrew, unsure what to make of the strange Mutant who clearly had a link with Hope that seemed to be born out of her likeness to his own child, Cathy, but Anderson couldn’t help but think there was more.
"What the hell is it with this guy, Fort Boy?”
Anderson kept his eyes on the thrashing Mutant as he answered. "I don't know Hog, but...... what I do know is that inside that creature there is a man fighting to keep control, fighting to hold back the plague and somehow that is linked to Hope. Between the two of them I believe lies the answer to this curse and we have to find it Hog, we have to.”
"Something else we need to do," responded Hog, "something we had better do when Hope is not around…"
Anderson gave him a quizzical look.
"We need to feed him," answered the Hells Angel leader. "You got a spare arm or leg in the freezer?”
#
"I'm thinking we should be looking at a backup plan Mr President," began General Chuck White. It was their daily meeting, held at 9 am prompt each morning to discuss affairs relating to Fort Hope although today, as yesterday, it would focus on the rescue mission to the United Kingdom to bring the remaining Pure to the States and in particular the child Hope who they were told carried an antibody to the plague.
"You've got my attention General," replied Zack Nelson, filling his coffee cup for the first time that day, there would be many more.
Grant Johnson, the President’s PA long before the plague devastated the world and now at Fort Hope, took notes as he did at all of the President’s meetings, commenting, as always, as he felt. "Hope you’re gonna cut back on the coffee today, Mr President.”
President Nelson ignored him, Grant said the same thing every time he poured a cup.
"I just think the child Hope is of such importance Sir that we have to have a backup plan should there be any problems with The Spirit Of The Sea,” explained White.
"You know it makes you cranky," continued Johnson, typing as he spoke.
President Nelson shot a glance at his PA but refused to be riled. “So what do you have in mind General?"
"Would be much easier if I could show you Sir, thirty minu
tes from here is my plan B suggestion.”
The President shook his head. "Got a lot to go over Chuck," replied Nelson, dropping a heavy file on the table before setting down his giant coffee mug and settling into a chair at his well-used conference table. “Can’t afford the time."
"You know what the doctor said," mumbled Johnson.
"Will you cut it out Grant,” snapped Nelson. "You are not my mother.”
General White lifted a hand to his mouth to cover his smile.
"If I was I would send you to your room," retaliated Johnson. "See what I mean General, cranky," responded the President’s PA.
"Right, you got one hour General," growled Nelson, jumping to his feet and glaring at his PA. "I stay here much longer I'm likely to do something I'm gonna regret.”
The President paced towards the door with White in close pursuit.
"What, like give up coffee?” shouted Johnson after the disappearing pair.
Half an hour later, President Nelson and General White drove through the gates of a facility ten miles east of Newton. Prior to the plague it had been built to manufacture cars, now it was a military base used by the US Air Force. Its main building covered an incredible area of close on three million square metres and could be seen from outer space. General White had been instrumental in setting it up as a gathering point for aircraft from around the States along with specialised staff from the world of aviation. Whilst they had gathered numerous military and civilian aircraft, the sourcing of the required staff and spares had been laborious and only a few aircraft were nearing service level however the crafts General White wanted to show President Nelson this morning were close to completion and with a push would be ready for the option B White spoke of.
Bravo Two Zombie (Book 3): The Final Solution Page 14